Mayhem in the Heart
by kittycommittee
Summary: Booth/Brennan post-credits for Mayhem on a Cross, with potential to expand into something longer.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Hi everyone. I've been lurking around this site reading fic for different shows for a really long time, probably about a decade or so, but I'm trying something a little different here: actually posting something. The first part of this isn't as strong as the second (I have a much better handle on Brennan than Booth, and while this is her story, he needs to start it out), so if you're not loving it, I would just ask that you read past the page break before making a decision. Hope you enjoy.

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Disclaimer: If I owned the show, it wouldn't be fan fiction.

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They had a good night, Brennan, Sweets and Wyatt. They talked and laughed, and they enjoyed the food. Gordon Gordon was, in fact, an excellent chef.

Booth's mind was elsewhere, though. He put up a good front, and no one seemed to see past it. Brennan's capacity to perceive emotions had improved over the years, but she still only saw what he allowed her to; he knew his own tells, and when he chose to control them, she was none the wiser. Nor was Sweets, who didn't know either of them nearly as well as he thought he did. Gordon Gordon may have noticed that something was off; God only knew how the man did it, but he seemed to be able to read things in Booth's psyche that even he wasn't aware of. Wyatt was respectful of his privacy, however. If he saw a difference in the FBI agent, he kept his mouth shut.

Booth spent the entire night replaying Brennan's words in his head. _The water was so hot. The soap was so slippery. They warned me it would happen..._ How old had she been? Fifteen? Sixteen? How could someone do that to a child? How could someone do that to _her_? She was distant, yes, and blunt, and somewhat oblivious to the people and world around her, but there was a _good_ in her that showed through it all. When they'd met, he hadn't liked her… for approximately ten minutes (and he'd been a bit of a jackass, himself, if he was going to be honest). He'd been frustrated with her for most of that first case (for most of the first year, actually, although he wasn't sure if he could count that. She hadn't spoken to him in that time, after all). But he _had_ seen past her harsh exterior. He'd shown her a video of their murder victim, Gemma Arrington, performing, and there had been an expression on her face that he couldn't quite identify. Utter concentration, for one thing, somehow paired with a dreaminess that should have made for an impossible combination; there was sadness there, too, and compassion. In that moment, he may not have known exactly what she was, but he'd sure as hell known that she wasn't cold or unfeeling; he'd known that she wasn't unlovable.

When he finished his third glass of wine, Booth went to the sink and rinsed the glass, then started washing the other dishes. Wyatt looked at the clock, and realizing it was getting late, motioned to his colleague. "Come with me, Dr. Sweets, and I'll give you a lift home."

Sweets stood as well, asking Booth if he wanted help with the clean-up before moving toward the door. "Are you coming, Dr. Brennan?" he asked, and she glanced at Booth, who shook his head.

"Stick around for a while, Bones. I'll take you home when I finish in here." She smiled and shook her head at Sweets, they all said goodnight, and the psychologists departed.

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Brennan came back to the kitchen, grabbed a sack-cloth towel, and began to dry the dishes that were piling up in the drainer. It was fast work; between the two of them, the dishes were washed and dried within ten minutes, and before either of them knew it they were sprawled across the couch in the living room. Booth turned on the stereo to a song she didn't know (something about fish in a bowl and wishing you were here… although why anyone would want to trap a loved one in a fish bowl, she couldn't fathom). She lost herself in the thought for a moment, and when she next glanced at Booth, he was looking at her appraisingly.

She knew that he wanted her to talk about what she'd revealed in Sweets' office earlier, but she didn't share that desire. There was no reason to rehash it, no possible purpose but to satisfy Booth's curiosity. ( _Curiosity?_ , she thought. _That isn't quite right. Curiosity implies detachment, and Booth is not detached._ ) Whatever the correct turn of phrase was, Brennan had moved past those events a long time ago, and Booth knowing the details wasn't going to help either of them. And yes, tears had come to her eyes in the telling, but it was a more of a reflex, a physiological response rather than an emotional one. Her lachrymal glands had responded to the memories of fear and a dark, cramped space in much the same way that her stomach responded to the promise of a good meal or her libido responded to thoughts of intercourse with a competent partner. Whatever Booth thought, she was fine.

She was quite proud of herself, actually. She may not have realized that Wyatt was speaking metaphorically when he referred to "scars on the back," but she had known what Sweets needed to hear. In fact, she had known it when Booth hadn't. And, while she didn't normally share the stories of her past (once again, more for others' peace of mind than her own), she had understood the necessity and done it with no prompting. Because fair was fair: she had seen Sweets' scars, and she had told Booth about them; she'd had to give Sweets something in return. But now there was Booth. _What to do about Booth…_

"Are you alright?" he finally asked.

"Yes." She met his eyes and put everything she had into letting him see her truth. She _was_ alright. But he was still looking at her with that pained expression. And he was reaching out, taking her hand in his.

"Give me something here, Temperance."

He didn't believe her, and she couldn't understand why. Why should she not have healed, when he obviously had? He'd made a confession of his own: he'd thought of killing himself as a child, perhaps even attempted it. But he had moved past it. Obviously. Because (as he had also admitted) of his grandfather. And because of his buddies in the army, and Rebecca, and Parker, and Cam, and her, and all their friends. The evidence was here in front of her: he was happy and holding her hand. He certainly wasn't living a life of pain and doubt, he didn't still have those thoughts. And she didn't know why it should be any different for her.

 _Give me something._

She could give him something. Not the details; that wouldn't do at all. If she told him too much, he would never be able to let it go. But she could give him… insight. She could give him words and reason. She could soothe his doubts.

She looked over at him and wrinkled her nose. "It… I was afraid. It was dark, and cold, and cramped. I didn't fit."

She paused between sentences. "We didn't really have any neighbors. There wasn't anyone around to hear me."

 _What to say? What to omit?_ "I was very lucky, actually. The weather was relatively cool and there was a large tree, _a quercus velutina_ , over the driveway that provided shade. A month later, the heat might have killed me."

He would think those pauses were because it was hard for her to think about this, to say it out loud. "I was hospitalized for a week and treated for dehydration. They moved me to another home after that."

He wouldn't ask for more. "I believe charges were laid against the family, although I was never asked to testify."

Those were the high points of the story: an acknowledgement of the horror ( _I was afraid…_ ), a brief reassurance ( _It wasn't as bad as it could have been!_ ), and a definitive end ( _I got out, I went somewhere else…_ ). It should be enough.

He still looked so sad, and, even with all the details she'd left out, she could tell that something had broken inside of him. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders (this was one of the few metaphors that she truly understood), and she had just made his burden heavier. His elbows were on his knees and his forehead rested in his palms. He rubbed his temples with his thumbs. She reached out and touched his shoulder. "I really am alright, Booth. It was a very long time ago." It was the truth, and she was trying her best to let him see that. But she never had been a very reassuring person…

He turned his head toward her again and met her eyes. "Please just tell me that was the worst thing that happened to you."

She thought about the other placements. The house with the apathetic mother and the father who didn't care where his fists landed when he drank. The one with the kind parents and two perfect little girls who practically worshiped her, where she'd felt loved, where she thought she might stay forever, until the mother lost her job and they moved to a smaller house and left her behind like so much waste. The house after that, where a chair under the knob of her bedroom door hadn't stopped the father from coming in at night. The place where she'd put up with minor abuses because the school was good and there was always food in the cupboards. The one with the psychopath of a foster brother who had used her to perfect his methods of torture.

She never lied. Never. But she couldn't tell Booth the truth this time. She couldn't hurt him like that.

"Of course," she said. "What could be worse than that?" She let the corners of her mouth quirk up in an ironic smile, and this time, she could tell, he believed her.

Maybe she was better at reassurances than she thought.

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AN: I have a second chapter written, so there is definitely one more part to this. It also has the potential to expand beyond that. I'd actually really like for it to be longer, but a lot depends on time (real life is pretty intense) and my own ability to finish a project. Please feel free to share your thoughts, and thank you for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, or favorited the first chapter. I'm a little bit warier of posting this one, but here goes. There probably needs to be a trigger warning here for abuse.

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That night, she woke up at 3 a.m. drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. She flipped the bedside light on ( _There is light…_ ) and stared up at the ceiling ( _It is high above my head; I am_ not _being crushed…_ ) and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders ( _I am warm. I am safe. Everything is_ fine _…_ ). She waited for her heartbeat to calm, and then for her thoughts to stop running circles in her head, but the nagging anxiety wouldn't quite dissipate.

This was ridiculous. She had moved past all that a long time ago. She really had. She _thought_ she had. She hadn't had a dream this vivid in years, not since that trip to El Salvador that had dredged up so many old memories. Was she internalizing Booth's reaction? Seeing the horror with new eyes? Or… damn it. Was it Sweets? _I still don't think it was fair…_ Why had she said that? She _knew_ it wasn't fair; she didn't need someone to reassure her of that fact. But Sweets had done it anyway, and he'd looked at her like he was seeing some kind of torment behind her eyes (however impossible that was). He had looked at her like she was a victim. She _wasn't_ a victim, not anymore… but he had made her feel that way all over again.

She groaned and flopped backward onto her pillows. God. She _hated_ psychology. She glanced at the clock again. 3:22. She had a feeling that this was going to be a long night.

 _What was different about today?_ Those memories did not play a large part in her everyday life, but it wasn't as if she suppressed them, either. She thought about it, sometimes, the cold and the dark, the inability to move or cry out. She identified with the murder victims she examined, used the fear she'd experienced then to drive her now so she could get justice for those who could not seek it for themselves. Reliving those memories was not an uncommon occurrence.

But she hadn't relived them today. Not really. She'd shared a little with Sweets, more with Booth, but the version of the story she'd told… it was so sanitized it was almost untrue. And maybe that was it. Maybe the memories wouldn't be denied.

 _I was afraid_ , she had said. _It was dark, and cold, and cramped. I didn't fit._ But she'd left out that the trunk had already been full when they crammed her into it, so full that the latch wouldn't click into place. It had taken them three tries to close the lid over her head; they'd had to slam it on top of her—hard—and she had taken most of the impact on her forehead as she tried to sit up. The first time it hit her, the pain had increased her panic. The second time, it had left her stunned. She'd stopped fighting by time the third blow came, and that was when the latch had finally engaged. They had gone inside to their comfortable couch and America's Funniest Home Videos, but she'd still been there, crushed between the detritus in the trunk and the cold metal of the hatch, barely able to move. Already as good as forgotten.

 _We didn't really have any neighbors. There wasn't anyone around to hear me._ That's what she had said to Booth, and it was true enough, but she hadn't told him that they'd slapped a piece of duct tape over her mouth. She wouldn't have been able to scream for help if a policeman had knocked on the hatch and asked if someone was inside.

 _I was very lucky, actually. The weather was relatively cool and there was a large tree over the driveway that provided shade. A month later, the heat might have killed me._ The cold might have killed her, too, if she had been in there any longer. The first day had been unseasonably warm, about 70 degrees, and she'd been grateful for that tree that kept the already stale air inside the trunk from getting any warmer. But the second day it had been colder; the temperature may have reached the low 60s, although she wouldn't have bet on it, and it had plummeted once the sun set. When she was admitted to the hospital, her core body temperature had been approximately 93 degrees and was still falling.

 _I was hospitalized for a week and treated for dehydration._ And hypothermia. And the sores that had formed as a result of her inability to shift her weight or position. There had been vaginal and urinary tract infections caused by lying in her own excrement for so long. The head injury, which was thankfully more blood and bump than concussion. A radial head subluxation, or partial dislocation of her elbow, from when they'd yanked her off the ground, where she'd fallen as they tried to pull her outside (the only defense she'd been able to think of at the time). And psychological trauma. _Of course. Don't forget that one._

 _They moved me to another home after that. I believe charges were laid against the family, although I was never forced to testify._ She knew there had been a trial. Her social worker, in what had quite possibly been the greatest service she'd ever done her, had kept Brennan out of it. She'd insisted that since it was Child and Family Services laying the charges, not Temperance Brennan, the right of the accused to face their accuser did not apply. She'd convinced the lawyer that the medical records and the statements the police collected at the hospital would be enough. And she'd been right; her foster parents were sentenced to ten years in prison for child endangerment, abuse, and neglect. Temperance hadn't really even cared, by that point; she had just been moved to yet another new home (the fifth in ten months) and wanted nothing more than to leave the past where it belonged.

All of that, she had left out on purpose, but there was more, so much more. She couldn't have told the entire story if she'd wanted to. There was too much there. Too many emotions that she still wasn't entirely certain how to quantify. Too many details that didn't seem important in the initial recitation, but were necessary in understanding the whole. It was alright, though. _She_ knew all those pesky little details already, so she could tell the story to herself and not have to worry about leaving them out.

And maybe, after she did that, she would be able to sleep.

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AN: That's what I have written at the moment, and I'd like to continue, but things will probably move fairly slowly from this point. I also feel like I should give a disclaimer that there _is_ a possibility of it not being finished. Like I said, real life is pretty intense, and this will need to be near the top of the "something's gotta give" list. That being said, I won't leave things in a terrible place, because that's not good for my head-space. =P So. Caveats in place, would people be interested in reading further? You should let me know.


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